


Don't Worry About It, John

by Doctor_Gaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Blood and Injury, Drugs, Fluff, Guns, Gunshots, M/M, Maybe Gay, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Sherlock Needs A Hug, Worry, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Gaster/pseuds/Doctor_Gaster
Summary: A whole slew of oneshots all based on one prompt.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Molly Hooper & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper
Kudos: 7





	1. Drugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drugs and a chase

“Damn it, Sherlock, come back!”

I stand on the dirty linoleum floor, a wave of confusion and indecision washing over me, stilling my movements, before I take off after my friend, weaving around several groaning bodies complaining about noise with a few muttered apologies in between yelling for him to return.

"Sherlock, I swear I won't slap you like the last time you disappeared, just come back here so you can explain what in the _bloody_ hell is going on?"

"Sorry, John, no can do!" His voice echos back to me through the dark and dirty hallway and I try to focus on his dark blue coat flapping in the air so I won't lose him to a side hallway. "This particular case does not pertain to you!"

Of course he would pull a stunt like this, of _course_ he would. He's Sherlock Holmes, a highly functioning sociopath who doesn't know how to take social cues and doesn't know how to actually speak to people for once in his miserable existence. Of course of course of course.

This place reeks of drugs and sweat, the musty odor's clinging to each other, and mixing to form a sickly sweet aroma tinged with salt and the stench of people. It's so...human. Too human. 

Imagine my surprise when I found Sherlock here after Mrs. Hudson told me the address Sherlock told her. I was in disbelief that he would actually be here. If he expected me not to track him down, then I think he's losing his edge.

The poor lady was worried out of her mind at the comment that Sherlock tacked onto it, and if I were her, I would be feeling the same way. But I'm not here, so I can be worried and chase after the bastard himself.

"Stop following me, John," the so-called genius calls back over the sounds of our pounding footsteps. "I know you're loyal to me and the partnership we have, but this is not for you! This case is my business to handle!"

Honestly, will he never learn? Will he learn to stop being a self-sacrificing, self-effacing, self-destructing madman and stop working himself to death, quite literally on this case? Sherlock is my best friend, and I'll be damned if something ever happened to him again. 

My goal is to put another meaning on the saying, "Friends til the end."

"Your business is my business, you idiot!" I shout, adrenaline fueling my legs into one last burst of speed, almost catching up to him. I'm getting too old for this chase business. If somebody invented a weapon that's like a gun and just incapacitates a person without using drugs or needles like a dart gun, that would be just _wonderful_. "Come back and explain why you took a case without telling me about it!"

"Don't worry...worry about it, John!" He's closer now, so close that if I jump, I can tackle him to the floor and demand some long-awaited answers. But I don't do that. I have self-control and a sense of comradery, unlike a certain person I know.

My chest is burning, and sweat is pouring down my face as I follow Sherlock down a flight of stairs, my short legs barely keeping up with Sherlock's long ones. I'm on the verge of stopping to catch my breath and let him go. He'll come back to Baker Street, and I can give him a full interrogation there. 

The only thing that's stopping me is that there are drugs here. And where there are drugs, there's bound to be some type of organized crime. They have guns. 

Sherlock's been shot and shot at too many times for my liking. I'm his impromptu backup I suppose.

There's only the beat of my short breaths and the blood rushing in my ears for music to this chase, but even if there were, I probably wouldn't have heard it. Half of my attention is fixated on the good for nothing idiot in front of me, and the other half is focused on not tripping and falling down these ridiculously steep stairs. 

Oh, and there's another part dedicated to muttering assorted curses breathlessly, detailing exactly what I was going to do to Sherlock if he didn't stop right this instant and explain himself. Those things involved intimidation and possibly a gun and plenty of threats. A man can dream.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably just a few moments, we reached the bottom of the stairwell where there was a door with the red paint job peeling off, so it was more like just a door. There was a small clunk as Sherlock pressed himself against it, but it didn't give way, and I skidded to a stop in front of him, resisting the urge to double over and breathe normally for a few seconds

"Oh," He hums, spinning around to face me, seemingly not out of breath. "That's unexpected. Someone probably put a box there. Help me open it, John."

He looks at me with those strange blueish grey eyes of his that look more grey in the dim light of the bottom of the stairwell, though some light leaks in from the cracks around the door behind him. 

"I'm sorry, what?" I say, feeling my eyebrows pull into a frown as I meet his eyes. "What occurred to the explanation I'm supposed to get after the stunt you just pulled?"

The friendly Doctor Watson has 'left the chat' as they say, and now the not so friendly Soldier Watson has arrived. Now that this....overgrown child is in front of me, my concern for him has made way for the royally pissed off feeling I'm experiencing as of right now.

"Explanation?" He looks surprised as if I'm supposed to know exactly why he came to this drug den out in the slums of London. 

"Of course!" I exclaim incredulously, throwing my hands up in the air. "I'm not a bloody mind-reader, Sherlock, I don't know why or how you do things!"

He opens his mouth to say something but I stiffly hold up a hand before he can get a word out, and he snaps it shut abruptly. "Don't-say that it's easy or whatever else. I'm not as smart and perceptive as you, so of course I need a damn explanation from you so I can give you back up when you venture into _mob_ territory."

"But I had it under control!" He replies, turning around and taking a step back from the door, examining it closely and pushing on it in some places.

Is he...ignoring me now?

I sigh heavily, suddenly feeling years older than I actually am. The fight hasn't left me yet, it's just decided to retreat. For now. 

Placing a hand on Sherlock's arm, I gently push him out of the way and take my gun out of my coat, hitting the doorknob once, twice, three times before it gave way, and I pushed open the door and stalked out of the building. I'm more than pissed off, I am royally pissed off, and if I don't get away from him right now, I'll probably hit him.

Again.

And again. 

Until he's a bloody pulp or dead. That idiot, worrying me so much like this. I care too much about his well-being than healthy. My hair is going to fall out from the stress one of these days, mark my words.

I let out yet another sigh as Sherlock catches up to me, matching my seemingly fast pace effortlessly.

"Don't worry, John," He speaks up in a softer tone of voice, and I glance over at him just in time to see him slip his hands into his pockets. "I'll explain everything to you for that little blog of yours...you are, uh, well written. Sometimes."

That was high praise coming from him, so I decided to let my anger dissipate, relaxing the fists I didn't know I had clenched. Against my better judgment, I trust him. 


	2. Fit For A King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Royalty comes to visit Baker Street

"Don't you know who I am?"

"Yes, I do. I just don't care."

I choke on my tea, and I see Sherlock glance at me with the barest hint on a smile on his face before returning to our newest client. Well, a maybe client.

By the way Sherlock is treating him, he might just storm out of here in a huff, and probably upset Mrs. Hudson. Again.

I use a nearby napkin to wipe away the spilled tea on my chin and try to dab away at the spots on my shirt, but they won’t be going away for a bit. I’m lucky I’m not wearing one of my white shirts, or else the tea would never come off.

Maybe I could ask Mrs. Hudson if she could tell me a secret way to get tea stains off of white clothes. It's for future reference of course. Who knows when I might be dragged to a party or some other event where a white dress shirt is needed?

”What do you think, Watson?”

"Huh?"

I look up, startled, and first meet the amused yet slightly bored-looking gaze of Sherlock, then my eyes slide over to the man perched uncomfortably on our client chair, who practically reeks of royalty, even in his totally inconspicuous new designer suit and expensive jewelry adorning his hands. He's looking at me with the snootish expression of a person used to looking down on people and commanding them to do his bidding. I dislike people like that.

Before I can ask his name again, Sherlock speaks up. "I'll give you the rundown, now that I have your attention. This is Valko Ludmilov Alexandrov, ayoung prince from Bulgaria, and he thinks somebody is going to kill him. He wants us to investigate around or something for him. Again, what are your thoughts on this?”

I sit in silence for a few moments, waiting for Sherlock to say more, or make his regular deductions about the man, but he’s uncharacteristically quiet.

He’s not giving me anything to go off of. _What does he want me to answer or deduce?_

As I shift uncomfortably in my chair, trying to make the spring poking in my side not as painful, the Prince coughs and ignores me. “So, Mr. Holmes, will you take my case?”

“Ah, don’t be impatient and ignore my colleague here, PrinceAlexandrov. I value his opinion and insight on things.” Sherlock’s eyes slide shut as he steeples his fingers under his chin, and I know that’s the sign that he’s disappeared into that mind palace of his.

_But when such an important maybe client is here? Strange. What have you figured out, Sherlock?_

I think back to the way the prince spoke. It sounded...off somehow, not the way I would expect royalty from a country whose language is so close to Russian. He almost sounds...British.

Is this an imposter? I don’t really know my way around royals from other countries, so I wouldn’t know the last name of the royal family, unless the prince married in and decided to keep his last name.

_Interesting. But is it correct?_

I’mstartledout of my thoughts for a second time when Sherlock speaks again. “You’re right, John. I see you’ve reached the same conclusion I have when this man first stepped in here.”

He sighs and stands, a fully bored expression settling over his features, taking off his jacket and draping it over his chair. Well...more like tossed it unceremoniusly, but "tomato,tomahto", as the saying goes.

The prince(?) stands as well, but before he could say anything, Sherlock goes behind him and starts to shoo him out the door. “Thank you, whatever your real name is, but we don’t like to work for the British government, they’re all just stuffy people in suits.”

The man frowns and drops the act, pushing against my taller friend. “B-but we can pay you a large sum of m-“

“Not interested!” Sherlock interrupts him and slams the door shut with a very final bang.

He turns to me, an exasperated expression on his face, and I can’t help but let out a stream of giggles. A line from before comes to me now... _we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene!_

Apparently my laughter is contagious, as Sherlock smiles, trying to not give in, before he caves and laughs with me.

_When was the last time we laughed together?_

_This feels nice._

”Don’tworry about it, John.” Sherlock says after our little fit. I guess he anticipated my question. “I’ll take care of Mycroft and the rest of the stuffy suits.”

He’s a mind reader as well as a detective.


	3. A Bullet Stops the Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a spot of trouble in an alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s time for a change of perspective, yeah?

**(Part 1 of 2)**

Dialogue is a boring starter for action. At least in my opinion.

You have to weave suspense, create music with your words, the rhythm in your head pounding in tandem with your heartbeat, the rush of adrenaline surging through your body, simultaneously heightening your senses beyond belief and dulling them almost beyond repair.

It could make or break you. Usually, I can tell what it will do for me, but in this case, I'm completely stumped.

Adrenaline........could be known as ecstasy, cocaine...any drug, really. I used those to get my blood pumping, to be excited, and not _bored_. 

But now, I have John, murders to solve and a gun pointed at my face. And so, I am stumped.

_Come on Sherlock, you’re the genius. Think._

John is next to you, his life is in danger, and you know you would never forgive yourself if he got killed by an obviously stupid action on your part.

You're backed up in a dead end alley, no ways out, nothing to shield yourself and John with. John’s gun is behind the man, in water. Useless. 

What else?

”I said don’t move, or I’ll shoot!” Voice is gruff, no tremor of fear or doubt. This man is a trained killer- don’t move?

Who moved? 

I glance over at John out of the corner of my eye and see him tense, hands still raised.

_Did he try to move in front of me?_

No, that’s putting himself more at risk. He wouldn’t do that just to...protect me...

He would, he does. _Damn it John, get back, I don’t need protecting, I just need time to think, then we can escape._

”Sherlock Holmes.” My name brings me out of my stupor, and I look at our attacker, slightly confused. _How did he-_ Then I remember a certain blog.

Makes sense.

”Control your friend, or else.”

John, stop it, you’re going to make this situation worse, you’ll get hurt.

He was tense, not because of the situation, but because he was getting ready to move. 

John, _stop_ -

A loud bang deafens me, and I cringe away, the regular sounds of early morning London fade away, replaced by a tiny ringing that’s loud enough to be annoying. Sound is gone, but I see the gun up, and I react. 

Its a sequence of steps, like a dance.

Step forward, kick, twist, follow through with a punch to the jaw, catch the gun before it hits the ground and misfire, put the safety back on, set the gun down.

Exactly like a dance.

Brilliant.

But...there was a shot. That’s why I’m half deaf. Ringing ears, remember?

Gun, bullet, didn’t ricochet, then that means-

_John._

I can feel my heartbeat start to speed up as I whirl around and see him leaning heavily against the wall, hand pressed tightly over his abdomen, pain etched over his face.

I rush to him, my hearing coming back in short bursts. “No, no, no, John-“

I press my hand over his, trying to help keep the blood in. My knowledge of medicinal science is not as great as his, but I call forth some snippets of information.

Entry wound: Near the kidney area, good, he’ll be in plenty of pain but he won’t die immediately.

Exit Wound: None as far as I can see if so he would’ve bled out and be very close to death.

The kidneys have plenty of blood in them, but did any of it nick an important artery? Is the artery close? Did I misjudge? _John, please don’t die on me-_

I turn my attention to John’s face. Pale, sweaty, shaking, eyes half closed, dilated pupils. I knew we would need an ambulance, but not for _him._

 _Never for him_.

I’m limited, facts blinded by panic and worry. I need my blogger more than ever. _Stay awake, for me_.

”John, please, tell me what to do, I don’t know how to help you,” I say, desperation cracking my voice. I can’t escape to the Palace, that would mean temporarily leaving John behind, with his wound. I can’t do that.

”Sher...lock...” John’s voice is weak, wavering, as if he’s disappearing. “Press...don’t...”

_He can’t disappear, I won’t let him._

”Please, don’t go to sleep, don’t die on me, John!” Am I shouting? 

I don’t know.

I hear sirens nearby, but I have to block them out, my friend is in danger and I need to help him. I couldn’t do anything before, I have to do something now.

_Stay awake John, you h-have to tell me what to do. How do I help you?_

_There’s blood on my hands._

_It’s warm._

_It’s your blood, John, it doesn’t belong out here._

_How do I help you?_

His breathing starts to get more shallow. I can barely register the flashing blue and white lights on the walls of the alley. I’m not doing anything.

Do I tighten the pressure? I do so and he groans slightly. Good, stimulus. But the paramedics are taking too long, I see too much blood and his eyes are starting to slide shut.

He’s weakening, I can sense it. _Am I not enough to hold him up_?

His knees buckle as he starts the descent to the floor, and I go down with him. I hear somebody call my name.

Unimportant.

_John, don’t give up on me now, don’t die, please!_

Nausea creeps up my throat, and I wrap an arm around John, my friend, my faithful companion, to keep him from coming into contact with the grimy alley floor.

Was it because of infection? 

I cant hear myself think.

”John!”

No response.

”John, _please_ -“

His eyes slide all the way shut, his breathing...is he breathing?

Arms pull me away from him, my friend, he needs me, let me _go_.

I see other hands pick him up, I want to scream _gently_ , he’s bleeding, he’s shot, he’s hurt.

I can’t see him. Is he breathing?

I hear somebody call for life support. A first aid kit.

He’s gone.

I feel something deep inside me crack as I sag in someone’s arms, utterly defeated.


	4. The Case Cones Second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! John’s not dead.

**(Part 2 of 2)**

The darkness is a comforting thing this time.

It’s not the crushing, suffocating blackness of sleep, right before the world lights up and you descend into a part of you that won’t stay locked up, no, it’s a warm, soothing darkness.

It feels like a hug.

My legs are crossed as I float in here, detached from all physical objects and connections. 

Where there ever any connections? _I can’t remember_.

All I have is a name.

John.

Is that my name? Or something my mind randomly generated?

I’m not worried about it right now. I do feel very heavy and sleepy. Am I allowed to nap? That would be perfect, a long rest to end a weary, hard fought day.

But...where was the fight? Why those words?

No, I think I’ll stay awake for a little while longer.

The space around me is empty. I want to do something, make something, anything to pass the time and keep myself awake.

A few words come to mind. Mind Palace. Didn’t somebody I used to know have one of those? The name escapes me.

Oh well, there’s no rush or hurry, I’m going to sleep soon. I can think later.

 _John_.

It’s a voice. Where did it come from? It sounds...far away, underwater. Who’s speaking? 

Leave me alone please, I’m really tired. I would like that nap please.

 _Don’t lose hope. Remember: paper_.

I’m interested now. Paper? What did the mysterious voice mean by that? I’m not sure if I should even trust it. A weird voice comes and talks to you when you’re trying to nap. How strange.

But now I’m curious. What paper?

There’s a sudden breeze, too discernible to be noticed upon any other circumstances, but I’ve been in this still, peaceful hug for who knows how long, so the change is a little bit startling.

I stand(?) and look around, trying to see something, anything, until something white above my head catches my attention. 

Is that the piece of paper?

I watch its decent, and hold out my hand as it flutters ever closer to me before landing in my outstretched palm.

Its not even a whole piece of paper, it’s just a scrap, though the quality of it is very good. It’s creamy and thick (THATSWHATSHESAID) more like stationary to be used at the Royal Palace than something here. 

There’s something written on it in ink. Even the ink is expensive looking, though it’s blurry and the word or words on there seems to be shifting and changing. _How do I make them stay?_

No, I already know. All I have to do is focus on the scrap and it’s contents, right? No problem at all.

The ink shifts even fast now, seemingly angry that I’m trying to read it, but I level the paper with my best Captain Watson stare, and it calms before rearranging into one word.

 _Sherlock_.

My friend.

The area around me bursts into colour and sound as memories come flooding back, though I focus on one in particular, the freshest, most recent one.

_I could see the tiniest tremor in Sherlock’s hand as he kept his hands up. That was the only trace of fear he allowed himself to feel as he started down the merciless barrel of a gun. I knew what he was thinking, I knew what he wanted to do, but I can’t allow that to happen._

_Even if it means getting shot myself. Again._

Shaking my head, I get rid of the images and look down at myself, expecting to see some gaping wound in my chest, blood spilling out of it in droves now that I remembered what had happened to me. 

But no, there was only a spot of blood near my kidneys.

 _The shooter missed_.

A sudden realisation hits me, and my eyes widen with the implications. I’ve left Sherlock with the shooter. Have I?

I call up the memory again, willing the blurriness near the end to subside, showing me what I need to know. The memory tips between blurring and focusing, and I clench my head, trying, _struggling_ to make it be clear-

_A sharp burst of pain, and I hunch over, vison blurring as I feel warm blood collecting on my hand as I try to keep pressure over my wounds. I hear a few grunts and then a soft, relieved sigh from Sherlock._

_Good, he’s safe._

_I’m ready to slip away when a cold hand is on mine, helping me with my weakening grip. An arm wraps around me, trying to keep me upright._

_I’m afloat in a whirlpool of my own making, all sounds muffled and dull, colours blurring and mixing together. The only thing that’s in focus is the pale and worried face of my friend._

_He rarely shows so much emotion. He’s distressed and afraid. For who? I’m fine, Sherlock, I’m just slipping away._

_I’ll be back._

Gasping, I clutch my chest, the void around me suddenly growing heavy and cold. The memories have stopped, leaving me alone with my thoughts. 

I promised Sherlock I would return. I need to find a way.

 _Light is usually an indicator of an exit, right?_ I think as I see a faint light in the shape of a door materialise a little ways in front of me. It’s soft, inviting, welcome, and the first thing I think of is _home_.

 _I’m coming, Sherlock_. 

* * *

The first thing I notice when I slowly, painfully, open my eyes, is how strange wherever I am smells. 

It smells almost exactly like Baker Street. 

The faint trace of chemicals buried underneath the aroma of smoked wood and a scent I’ve come to know is Sherlock’s.

Is he here?

The next this I notice is a voice. It’s quiet, soft, and oh-so-familiar. “It’s been a little over two weeks now, John. Two weeks, one day, seven minutes and 23 seconds to be precise. I’ve counted. I’ve stayed with you. And I- we need you to wake up.”

The pain in his voice- I did that to him. Maybe it’s best if I went back to sleep. He’ll get over it, and so will everybody else. Life will move on without me, and Sherlock will find somebody new to replace me. I’m just his blogger after all.

“If this is...if this is how it felt when I- when I fell....oh gods, I’m so sorry.” 

Apparently I made some sort of noise, or alerted Sherlock that I was awake, but he gave a little gasp and there was a small thump and a sniff before he came into my line of sight. 

Sherlock looked...terrible, to be frank. Red eyes, hollow cheeks, paler complexion...if I didn’t know better, I would say he was using again.

But Sherlock Holmes never breaks a promise.

”John, you’re- you’re finally awake.” His voice is relief mixed with pain, and I can’t look him in the eyes. “It’s been too long, we were all worried, and.....sorry, I’m getting emotional.”

My throat feels dry and scratchy, so my words come out with less force than I want. “Sh-Sherl...ock...no need to-to apologise. Be...ing emotional is...good for you.”

A wave of exhaustion suddenly hits me, and I fight the urge to slip into sleep once more. I want to stay and comfort Sherlock, he needs somebody to be here with him, somebody to talk to. But I’m just....mentally, physically and emotionally drained.

Though, Sherlock, being as perceptive as always, gives a small smile before saying softly, “Don’t worry about it, John. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

With that, I slip into blissful sleep.


End file.
